


Día de los Muertos

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-16
Updated: 2006-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the Halloween Challenge at hl_challenge_co</p><p>Disclaimer: The Character of Duncan MacLeod and the concept of Highlander do not belong to me. Only borrowing those and giving everything back, cleaned and in order. I only lay claim to the plot of this particular story and the characters Hernan and Adriana. Feel free to borrow them, though.<br/>Finally, I'm not getting anything out of writing this stuff beyond a kick. ;-)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Día de los Muertos

**Author's Note:**

> For the Halloween Challenge at hl_challenge_co
> 
> Disclaimer: The Character of Duncan MacLeod and the concept of Highlander do not belong to me. Only borrowing those and giving everything back, cleaned and in order. I only lay claim to the plot of this particular story and the characters Hernan and Adriana. Feel free to borrow them, though.  
> Finally, I'm not getting anything out of writing this stuff beyond a kick. ;-)

Día de los Muertos

 

Duncan MacLeod drifted along through the rows and rows of gaudily adorned graves. Children’s graves with balloons. A mother’s grave with red and yellow zempasúchil, a local marigold variety. An old man’s grave with two large candles and a pipe wrapped in plastic to shield it from the rain. A family tomb decorated with baby-blue bands, papier maché skeletons and something that looked suspiciously like a cake.

The colours might not shine the most brightly in the rain, but they rendered the graveyard incongruously cheery. Besides, the rain kept the flowers fresh. Their petals were smooth and young and full of life, mocking the skulls and skeletons.

Humans always found a way to defy death, or at least their fear of it. During the dark long nights of autumn and winter, the fear was the greatest and called for festivities with an urgency of its own. Here in Mexico, they celebrated the Day of the Dead. Raunächte, Samhain, Hallow E’en, it did not matter what you called it. It was always about fear, and hope.

Duncan looked about him. The Mexicans seemed to be dealing with their fears well. At first glance this graveyard looked like a meadow after a great picnic, with leftovers and personal belongings strewn on the ground among the flowers. It seemed strange to him that this should be the Day of the Dead.

But that it was. And it also was why Duncan had come down here. He had flown all the way to the Sierra Madre del Sur, because he had realised that this was his chance to speak to someone who believed him dead.

Not yet. Later, when it was dark.

After Linda Plager’s death he had often pondered trying this. The idea was too tempting. Now, after Linda, it seemed to make sense. It had been such a beautiful reunion, even though it had been on her death-bed. At least he had finally been able to tell her the truth.

The sun was already setting. The lower it sank, the more restless Duncan grew. The darkness was affecting him, even after all those centuries, was that it? Or was he unsure if this really was a good idea, flying down to Oaxaca on a whim to meet another woman he had loved once one last time? Or maybe it merely got to him that someone had installed life-sized skeletons with red eyes and neon lights shining from inside their bones. They grinned back at him, taunting him.

If he really sought out and entered her house, then he would be revisiting his own ghosts, and becoming one at the same time. Was that wise?

He had to do this now or never. Adriana was growing old and … well, whatever his friend Hernan had meant by “peculiar”. Was it Alzheimer, senility or just the general stubbornness of old age? Or something else? His presence might make matters worse…

On the other hand, they had parted on very bad terms, and Hernan had told him that she still blamed herself for Duncan’s death. He could clear her conscience in that regard. Nobody else could. Hernan had tried, he knew.

His breath white in the moonlight, Duncan sighed. No, he knew what he must do. He nodded. He would stick to the plan.

He entered the small building quietly, trading the dim light of the alley for the thicker darkness of the anteroom. The ceiling was low. Tall as he was, he could touch it with his hands easily. He knocked on what he believed to be the kitchen. There was no answer, and he knocked harder. A female voice called him in, asking “Who is it?” in an Indian dialect. It was barely audible.

He opened the door. Indeed, he was in the kitchen. But there was nobody here. A strip of light fell across the floor from an open door at the other end of the room. Duncan moved toward it on quiet soles. Now he could see her. Slim and frail, she sat on a sofa. Everything about her was white – her skin, her hair, her dress. Peculiar, yes. This was certainly not the usual style an old woman dressed in Oaxaca. After all, the people of the Sierra Madre del Sur had a penchant for colour not only on Día de los Muertos.

“Who is it?” she had asked. Her beady eyes peered at what little of him was relieved by the strip of light.

He stayed in the shadows as he replied, “A ghost from the past” in the more formal Spanish he had always preferred to speak.

When she answered, her voice was softer, more dignified. “Come in. I have waited for you.”  
He entered the small cosy room, his eyes on her features.

Adriana was so small, a ghost herself. Her face showed neither surprise nor fear. “You’ve come to judge me?”

“No,” Duncan shook his head. “On the contrary.” He sat beside her. Slowly. “I have come to tell you it was not your fault.”

“I know that, now. They think I am mad. But I am only seeing things more clearly. I can see that Hernan is not growing older. Like you don’t. I can see the ghosts that surround us, Duncan. Because I am becoming one.”

She was echoing his own thoughts, but to her the words meant something very different. She was mortal. She was speaking of her own death. The thought was hard to bear.

He reached for her hand. It was cold, but as he held and stroked it, it grew warmer. Biting back the tears in his eyes, he contradicted, “You don’t seem like a ghost to me.”

She gave him a gentle, compassionate smile. “Ah, my poor Duncan. Always trying to be strong for everyone else. But this time, I believe I am the stronger one. I have seen beyond my death, and I saw nothing I fear.” She reached out to cup his cheek. “You cannot see that far. You stay too young for that. Once we die, we do not grow older.”

If this was madness, it was of a very strange kind. And strangely kind.

Duncan covered the hand cupping his cheek. He kissed its palm and drew it to his chest. He wanted her to feel his heartbeat. His love. He leaned over and kissed the soft, wrinkled forehead.

Everything was so simple now, without fear of consequences. Well, only a tiny one, but that could be remedied.

His cheek against her forehead he whispered, “I will stay with you tonight, but you must not tell anyone I was here. Tonight is for you and me, nobody else. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Now tell me, my beautiful Adriana, what can I do for you tonight?”

“Tell me of the life you would have led if you had not died.” At last he understood. He had assumed that she knew he was real, after all. He had been wrong. In fact she believed him to be a ghost, indeed, or a dream, or just a trick of her mind. All the same, the distinction was of no consequence.

Legend and myth had lifted this moment out of time, everything was possible tonight.

“Believe that I have not died, Adriana. I have led a full life. I have wandered far and wide. I have loved, beyond all measure. I have …” He hesitated, then decided to simplify things a little. After all, Richie was like a son to him. This was for her, not for him. “I have become a father, and I have learnt many things. I have led a happy life.”

She smiled. “So have I.”

Just for a very moment he wanted to kiss her passionately, as he had several decades ago. He was afraid he might hurt her frail body if he did, and so the moment passed. Instead, he stroked her face, touched her hair and kissed her lips softly. He kissed her forehead, then her right eyelid. While he kissed the other one, a tear slid out from beneath it and rolled down her cheek. She did not open her eyes.  
A moment later he realised she had fallen asleep and covered her with a blanket.

Duncan watched Adriana sleep for hours. An hour before daybreak, he slipped out of the room and out on the street. He wandered back to the church where Hernan would be waiting for him.

Today he felt his presence like a mild spell of migraine. The pain started between his shoulder-blades and crawled up his neck, before it spread along his skull. He opened the church door, his eyes searching the dimly lit pews. Father Hernan entered from a side door. Respectfully he bowed his knee in the direction of the altar, before he came over.

While they shook hands and exchanged some small talk, the pain in Duncan’s head grew milder, died down.

Finally, Hernan asked, “How did it go, Duncan?” In the growing light he could see concern in the Father’s eyes.

“Better than I dared hope. She didn’t need me to be at peace, but it was good to spend a few quiet hours with her one last time. I had meant this visit to be my gift to her, but in the end I have been at the receiving end of the gift-giving.”

Hernan nodded. “I am glad.”

“One more thing before I go. Maybe you should start using makeup or something. She noticed you do not grow old.”

The padre shrugged. “She thinks I am a ghost. Nobody pays heed.”

“One day they might.”

“My people is not afraid of death, Duncan.” Then his features softened. “But you are right, of course. I should look into making myself look older. I thank you.” Hernan had been a university professor of literature, theology, sociology and philosophy. He spoke fourteen languages, exceeded Duncan’s age by almost a thousand years, had bested him in every single of a dozen friendly sparring sets,… And yet he took his advice as meekly as a scolded schoolboy.

“My friend, your humility amazes and shames me,” Duncan rejoined, his head bowed.

Father Hernan laughed and embraced Duncan. “You have such a kind heart, my dear boy! Your advice is always welcome. But now it is time to go. Rufino will take you back to the Airport.”

While the quiet young monk drove, Duncan thought about Adriana. He felt a sudden urge to go back, to sneak in and leave something for her. Some proof that he had, indeed, been with her. Then he realised he had already left proof of sorts. The blanket he had covered her with – she could not have reached it on her own. With that thought, he, too, fell asleep, after a Día de los Muertos that had lasted far too long.


End file.
